


Colder Weather

by FireflysLove



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ghosts, Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Pre-War, ghost au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-21
Updated: 2017-08-23
Packaged: 2018-12-18 01:22:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 18
Words: 20,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11863704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FireflysLove/pseuds/FireflysLove
Summary: In another life, Bucky died in Azzano and Steve never became Captain America. Bucky's come back to haunt Steve.  In another time two boys fall in love and learn how to live.A Ghost AU written in two parts.Written for the Stucky Big Bang 2017





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'd call it a labor of love, or something like that.  
> Title after the Zac Brown Band song.

#  1.

_ January 7, 1944 _

_ Brooklyn _

The night is dark and cold. He’s standing on a street corner, coughing intermittently as the cold tries to climb its way down his throat. He wraps the threadbare scarf tighter across his face in a futile attempt to keep the cold out. His chest rattles noisily, as if to remind him there’s nothing he can do about the cold… inside or out.

It’s six weeks since the Barnes family received a letter  _ We regret to inform you that James B. Barnes was KIA on November 3, 1943.  _ They’d sent Becca to tell Steve. Steve had nearly slammed the door in Becca’s face, but he thought she understood. Of all of Bucky’s family, Becca had always been the… perceptive one.

He finds the grocery store he’s headed for packed with people trying to get out of the cold for even just a moment. He takes advantage of his smaller frame and slides through the crowd to the back of the store. The week-old cabbages are calling his name. Bucky had sent home money, money his parents had never known about. Steve tries not to dwell on that as he picks the least-rotten ones out of the pile. He’d been able to beg bacon fat off his elderly neighbor the day before, so at least this week’s soup would have a little depth of flavor. And he didn’t need to pay the iceman in the depths of winter. He tried not to think about where he’d be living once the meager savings he’d put aside ran dry. If he stretched, he’d make it to March.

But… that’s not for thinking about now. A bottle of amber liquid glints balefully at him from eye level, and he considers the bottle of whiskey as sullenly as it seems to be regarding him. It’s outrageously expensive, and he knows where to get shitty moonshine, but… well whiskey had always been Bucky’s poison. He grabs the smallest bottle and heads for the till.

It empties his pockets, but warms his belly.

* * *

 

_ July 1936 _

_ Brooklyn _

It’s hot in Brooklyn in July, the sun seems to come closer as the year reaches its turning point and begins the long, slow descent to its end. It’s also quite possibly the most frightening day of Bucky Barnes’ short life. He’s known since he was old enough to know such things that he’s been in love with Steve. And today’s the day he’s going to tell him. It’s just some random day in July, no fireworks to be seen. He’s been fretting about it all week, and finally worked up enough courage to do the damn thing.

He comes home from work early, he took the early shift instead of the late one today, before Steve does. It’s just enough time to straighten the apartment and himself and get something special ready for dinner. Well, “special” being ham in the cabbage soup instead of leftover pork from when they had been able to afford it. He’d even managed to find enough potatoes to make Sarah Rogers’ colcannon. But that was for  _ after _ he told Steve his life-changing revelation. Either “hey, see, I love you!” or “Uh, sorry, I’m talking out my ass, just friends, please don’t kick me out?” sincerely hoping it was the former.

So when Steve walked in, the sun just starting to set in the west, his nostrils flared at the scent of richly spiced stew, and he raises an eyebrow.

“Some special occasion?” he asks.

“Maybe,” Bucky says cryptically, going to take Steve’s bag from him. This raises another eyebrow, but Steve allows it.

“What’s gotten under your collar, Barnes?” he asks.

“Oh, nothing,” Bucky says.

“I’ll get it out of you,” Steve says.

_ I sincerely hope so _ , Bucky thinks, but otherwise laughs it off.

Steve goes to their shared bedroom to clean up and comes back in a clean undershirt and his pants. “It’s getting hotter, somehow,” he says.

“It’s July,” Bucky says. “It always gets hotter in July.”

Steve sighs heavily and plops down in his chair at the kitchen table.

“So you made hot soup and…” here he sniffs “colcannon?”

Bucky shrugs helplessly. “It’s about all I know how to make!”

Steve laughs, “’S all right, Buck. It’s not often I don’t have to cook, so whatever you’re making’s great.”

Bucky smiles back at him. “Good, because I haven’t tasted it yet, so it might taste like shit.”

“Only one way to find out,” Steve says, coming up to the stove.

They each take a bowl and go back to the table. They eat in silence for nearly ten minutes before Steve finally breaks it.

“You’re practically vibratin’ out of your skin, what is it?” he says.

Bucky swears under his breath. He had the whole thing planned out. But he might as well come out and say it.

“It’s just that… you … an’ me… we been friends a long time. And I… I dunno, I think that means a lot,” Bucky says stupidly.

Steve gives him a long look. “All right,” he says, taking another bite of soup.

“Dammit, that’s not what I meant to say,” Bucky says. He steels himself and blurts out, “I’m in love with ya, Stevie.”

Steve drops his spoon and goes white as a sheet. He doesn’t say anything but pushes the chair back from the table and walks to the door. Bucky doesn’t even try to stop him, he just sits limply at the table, spoon in his hand. Steve slams the door behind him as he leaves.

* * *

 

_ November 1943 _

_ Nether-Italy _

Bucky knew the moment he died. He didn’t expect what came afterwards. He’d expected… something. Angels, fire, a white light, nothingness even. But he hadn’t expected to be standing over his own cold, dead body while the doctor swore in German. It was hauled away by two goons, and with nothing else to do, he followed it. When they started to go downstairs, he changed his mind, and instead went to where the prisoners were kept. He’s surprised to find the cages empty.

There’s shouts far away, and as soon as he thinks that he wants to go see what that’s about, he finds himself flying through walls and floors until he’s outside. There are explosions and bullets and… ray guns? flying everywhere and then a bullet goes straight  _ through _ him and he thinks to duck behind a wall.

But that doesn’t matter now.

Because he’s a fucking  _ ghost. _ The prisoners seem to be rallying behind a woman with a shield. Bucky vaguely recognizes her from somewhere, but he’s rather distracted by the fact that he’s  _ dead _ . So as her British-accented voice leads the charge, he follows at a more sedate pace. He ends up following the parade all the way back to camp, and even sees his own KIA letter being written. It’s a more than surreal experience, and he’s taken aback by how … off everything feels.

He’s not the only ghost, not by a long shot, this is a war after all. But none of the other ghosts seem particularly interested in making contact with him, so he just… drifts through the camp, unsure of what to do. If he knew how, he’d go home, home to Brooklyn and Steve. But… well, Italy’s a long way from home.


	2. Chapter 2

#  2.

_ December 1943 _

_ Nether-London and Elsewhere _

It takes Bucky nearly six weeks to figure out how to move more than the distance that he can “walk”. He sees other ghosts come and go in a flash, as if they were transporting through space. When he tries to ask them, they all ignore him. None of them are hostile, per se, but none of them come any closer than is absolutely necessary.

It happens by accident. He’s wondering how the prisoners from Azzano are doing, and suddenly he’s there, with a bunch of them. In a bar, apparently. He turns away from the singing men and goes outside. He still uses doors, although he’s seen other ghosts generally ignore them and go through walls. Outside he finds himself in a different place than he left. Somehow he’s in London, by the newspapers.

The ghosts here are different. Not as many soldiers, but there are so many more of them. And some of these are hostile. One takes notice of him looking around confused and charges at him, not so much running as gliding incredibly fast toward Bucky. Bucky’s first thought is of  _ safety _ and he’s away, again, somewhere else. It’s an open desolate plain, snow the only thing that can be seen for miles and miles. And he’s utterly alone.

It’s a strange feeling. He grew up in a city of millions, never having so much as a room to himself before he was drafted into the army and shared close quarters with dozens of men. Even before his death he had never been quite left alone.

He feels small, and very weak, as if his substance is being ripped away from him.

“You have to be very careful with transportation, lad,” a voice says from behind him.

Bucky jumps and spins around. “Where did you come from?” he asks.

“Somewhere. That’s not important,” the voice says again. It belongs to a formless shape that vaguely resembles the ghosts that Bucky has seen. “You’re new, right? How long since you died?”

“S-six weeks,” Bucky stammers.

“Ah,” the form says. “And no one talks to you and you cannot ask questions, and you cannot do anything without discovering it by accident.”

“I don’t even know why I’m here,” Bucky says.

“Here, this place or here, the place between life and death?” the form asks.

“Both, I guess,” Bucky says.

“Here, this place is a simple one. You transported somewhere away from something trying to harm you. Yes, even the dead can be harmed. As for why you did not pass on to whatever afterlife is waiting for you? Well, usually it is because someone has unfinished business,” the form says.

Bucky’s mind flits to Steve. It surprises him, the first time he’s thought of Steve since his death. But… yes, that would certainly count as unfinished business.

“Who are you?” Bucky asks after a moment.

“I am…other,” the form says. “I do not recall my life very well, but I do not believe I am of your world. My existence has become devoted to the teaching of the recently dead who find themselves in my domain.”

“This isn’t…Earth?” Bucky asks.

“No,” the being replies. “This is where I exist, and it is where the spirits of your world come when they need safety. You will have to return eventually, but for now I will teach you what I can.”

“Do you at least have a name?” Bucky asks.

“No,” the being says. “Now, your first lesson is in energy conservation…”

Bucky’s not sure how long he spends there with the being, learning how to be a ghost.

* * *

 

_ July 1936 _

_ Brooklyn _

Bucky is stunned by Steve’s abrupt departure, and it takes him nearly ten minutes to get his act together and follow after Steve. He looks through the entire building and finally finds him on the roof, huddled in a corner.

Bucky makes his approach obvious, his shoes crunching on the gravel of the roof. “Steve?” he finally asks, a few feet away. “D’you want me to go?”

Steve looks up at that, his face red and tear-streaked. “What?” he croaks.

“I can go,” Bucky says. “I’ll be out of the place by tomorrow morning.” He turns to leave, and Steve makes a broken noise.

Bucky turns back.

“No,” Steve says softly. “No.”

“You don’t want me to go?” Bucky asks, confused.

“No!” Steve says, more vehemently this time. “God no, never.”

“Steve, you’re not making any sense here,” Bucky says.

Steve scrubs at his eyes and hauls himself to his feet, “Go back inside,” he says. “Less people.”

A few minutes later they’re sitting back at the kitchen table and Steve is staring into his soup bowl.

“Steve, you’re killing me here,” Bucky says finally.

Steve looks up at him, eyes seeming impossibly bluer for the red rims surrounding them. “I’m sorry,” he mutters. “I just… I… I never thought…” He trails off, and Bucky nearly growls in frustration.

“I’m sorry, Buck,” he says. “I fucked this all up.”

Bucky blinks at that. “ _ You _ fucked this all up?”

“I never thought you’d end up this way, too,” Steve says quietly.

“What way?” Bucky asks.

“In love with someone you’re not supposed to be. You weren’t supposed to fall in love with me!” Steve says, sliding the chair back again and tugging at his hair. “You’re supposed to find a nice girl and settle down with her and have ten beautiful babies!”

Bucky is taken aback, “According to who?” he asks.

“Natural law? God? Fate? I don’t know. You weren’t supposed to fall in love with someone who’s gonna die before he turns 25, who can’t give you a good life, goddammit,” Steve says, nearly shouting the last part.

“You think I didn’t have a choice in this?” Bucky replies, just as loudly. “You don’t think that every damn time you came home with a broken nose or bloody knuckles I didn’t know what I was getting into? You don’t think that every winter you get the goddamn flu and I don’t know that you could  _ die _ ? Jesus fuck, Steve, I’ve been in love with you for eight goddamn years and you think you can tell me I don’t know what I’m doing?”

Steve goes white as a sheet at Bucky’s shouting, and Bucky realizes that he’s backed Steve up against the wall.

“And what do you mean by  _ too _ ?” he asks much more quietly.

“I kinda thought it was obvious, Buck,” Steve says.

Bucky looks up to the heavens for strength. “Why don’t you spell it out for me?” he asks.

“I… I love you, Bucky,” Steve says finally, color rising in his cheeks.

Bucky braces his hands on the wall on either side of Steve’s head. “You really mean it?” he asks.

“Wouldn’t say it if I didn’t,” Steve says.

“Good,” Bucky says, and then he’s kissing Steve as if his life depends on it.

Steve’s first reaction is to freeze in surprise, but surprise quickly melts away and he’s kissing Bucky back, clumsily, but most first kisses are clumsy. Bucky finally pulls away for a moment and rests his forehead against Steve’s. Steve is breathing heavily, his face gone red again.

“How’s your breathing?” he asks.

“Fine,” Steve pants.

“I don’t think so,” Bucky says, and steps away.

Steve whines, a sound Bucky’s never heard him make before, and grabs after Bucky’s wrist.

“Oh, I’m not going anywhere,” Bucky says. “But the soup’s getting cold, and I made it special.”

“And the colcannon?” Steve asks.

“And the colcannon,” Bucky replies.

* * *

 

_ January 8, 1944 _

_ Queens and Brooklyn _

Steve tries again to enlist, this time out of sheer frustration, and the fact that the recruitment stations are warm. They throw him out ten seconds into the exam, and he barely manages to get away from the MP who comes out a few moments later. He’s out of breath by the time he ends up in an alley behind a greengrocer. It’s a long, cold walk back to Brooklyn, and it’s nearly night by the time he comes up to his apartment building.

There’s a rattle in his chest that threatens to become something more serious, and he whacks himself on the chest in a flimsy attempt to dislodge the phlegm. He takes the stairs up to his apartment slowly, and it’s only then that he realizes he can feel the wood of the stair through the sole of his shoe.

“Shit,” he mutters into his scarf.

Steve stumbles through the door and slams it behind him. He hears a noise and looks up, and almost as if in slow motion, a precariously balanced bowl rolls off the shelf above the kitchen counter, miraculously bounces unharmed off the counter, and then sails through the window, shattering three of the panes.

Steve just stares at the hole in the window, rather disbelieving of its existence. A few snowflakes drift in just to prove him wrong.

He slumps down at the kitchen table and buries his face in his arms.

_ Shit. _


	3. Chapter 3

#  3.

_ Nether-Sometime _

_ Nether-Somewhere _

As it turns out, time has very little meaning when you’re dead. Bucky’s not sure how long has passed since he’s gone Elsewhere, but by the time he figures out how to get out, it’s after Christmas. He reappears in the place he left, the middle of the street in London, and a car drives  _ through  _ him, making him jump back, into another car. He knows they can’t see him, but it’s strange nevertheless. London still bears the scars of the Blitz, nearly three years gone, and it’s into a burned out building that Bucky drifts, waiting for… something to happen.

He can’t  _ sleep _ precisely, but the Being taught him a form of rest that allows him to regenerate his essence. Escaping Elsewhere had taken more out of him than he expected, and Bucky lets himself relax, becoming little more than a thing of mist. He dreams of his life, before the war and death.

* * *

 

_ January 9, 1944 _

_ Brooklyn _

Steve wakes to a freezing cold apartment, the towel he’d shoved in the hole in the window last night had fallen out, and snow was starting to drift into the sink. He swears loudly and just stares at it, completely at a loss with what to do. He has absolutely no money to pay for a new window, even if he did, he would spend it on food first. So he wads the towel back up and thrusts it into the window more securely. The snow… well the snow’s just going to have to melt. He portions out a ration of oatmeal and makes it with melted snow. There’s enough cinnamon left from before the war that he doesn’t have to be stingy with it.

Not that he’s expecting to outlive the cinnamon.

It’s goopy and awful, but it’s filling and warm, and that’s all that matters. He pulls on almost all of his clothes, including an extra pair of socks, and heads out into the cold dreary day. He’s looking for ‘help wanted’ signs, not that most of them would hire  _ him _ , but it’s the only thing he can do.

Finally, he finds one that he hasn’t seen before, in a neighborhood he doesn’t usually frequent. It’s a newspaper place, and the sign doesn’t say anything more than ‘now hiring’, so he goes in.

The secretary looks up at him, a raised eyebrow at the state of his clothing. “And you are…?” she asks condescendingly.

“Steve Rogers, ma’am,” he says. “I saw the sign in the window…?”

“We’re looking for… adults for the job,” she says, turning back to the papers in front of her.

“I’m 25, ma’am,” he says.                    

She looks up at him, and rolls her eyes, “Fine. Wait here.” She stands up and disappears into the depths of the building. A few minutes later, she returns, followed by a well-dressed man.

“You here for the job?” the man asks.

Steve nods, and the man gestures for him to follow. The room they end up in is very small, but very warm, and Steve takes the opportunity to take off a few layers.

“The job’s not easy,” he says. “Unless you happen to be talented at drawing…?”

“That I can do,” Steve says, perking up.

“Really?” the man sound surprised. “Here, draw me.” He slides a pad of paper and a pencil across the desk to Steve.

It takes longer than Steve would like, and he can tell the man is getting uncomfortable, but finally he slides it back across the desk to him.

“Well, damn, son,” he says. “You’re hired. Come back this time tomorrow and I’ll give you your first assignment.”

He stands up, offering a hand to Steve. Steve takes it, bewildered at the sudden change in the man’s demeanor. They shake hands, and the man leads him out. “I’m Michael Smith,” he says.

“Steve Rogers,” Steve says.

“I hope you’re always that good, Steve,” the man says, and then Steve’s outside again, still a little confused.

When Steve gets home, the towel is still stuck in the window, and the snow is mostly gone. It’s even a little warmer than it was the night before.

He spends most of the rest of the day doodling and it’s only as the sun goes down that he realizes he’s drawn Bucky over and over again. Not the first time this has happened, and probably not the last.

He sighs, closes the sketchbook and goes to the stove to heat up last night’s soup.

By the time Steve’s in bed he’s exhausted from simply existing most nights, and this night is no different.

He dreams, not ones he’ll remember, but he dreams of what his life was, before.

* * *

 

_ August 1936 _

_ Brooklyn _

Even though living half in each other’s pockets since they were practically infants has given Steve and Bucky a closeness some people consider “unnatural”, something about admitting you’re in love with a guy makes you want to plaster yourself to his side 24/7. Unfortunately for both of them, Bucky has to work, Steve has another incessant cough, and it’s hot as all hell out. 

The heatwave breaks in the middle of the night almost a month after their confessions. The cough subsides as the temperature does, over the next three days until Bucky’s practically ready to start bundling Steve up in scarves when they go outside. 

Bucky comes home on the evening of the third day to find Steve asleep on the couch, a blanket pooled in his lap like it had been wrapped around his shoulders. His sketchbook is dangling precariously from slackened fingers. Bucky plucks it from them and closes it without looking. If Steve wanted him to see what was in there, he’d show Bucky. He puts the book on the shelf above the couch, between the windows, where it usually lives. 

Bucky considers leaving Steve there, letting him sleep. He hasn’t been sleeping well, with the cough and all, but leaving him in this position will probably screw his neck and back up for the next week, and he already has enough posture problems. Bucky puts a gentle hand on Steve’s shoulder and shakes him awake. 

“Wha?” Steve asks sleepily.

“Thought you was supposed to have dinner ready by the time I got home,” Bucky says with a smirk.

Steve wrinkles his nose, “Sorry, I was tired.”

“Nah,” Bucky says, “I know you need your sleep. You want to eat or sleep some more?” 

Steve considers for a moment. “Food.”

Luckily, there’s enough leftovers that it doesn’t take them long to scrounge together a semblance of a meal. They eat it at the kitchen table, Bucky regaling Steve with stories of the other dock workers’ antics.

Eventually, as the sun starts to slip behind the buildings, they move to the couch. Bucky has a pulp science fiction novel he’s read at least three times, and he’s reading it out loud to Steve, who is snuggled up against his side, blanket draped over him. He reaches the end of a chapter and realizes it’s getting too hard to see, so he closes the book and looks over at Steve. The other man is asleep, head resting between Bucky’s shoulder and the back of their couch. 

Bucky puts the book down on the table, careful not to move Steve too much, then slides his arms under the smaller man’s knees and back, picking him up blanket and all. In years past, this would have brought a negative reaction from Steve, so Bucky is pleasantly surprised to find that Steve instead shifts so that he’s curled into Bucky’s chest. 

Bucky sets him gently down in his bed, and tries to adjust the blanket so that it at least covers most of Steve. When he turns to leave, he’s surprised to find Steve grabbing at him. 

“Don’ go,” Steve mumbles, his eyes still closed. 

Bucky hesitates for only a moment before toeing off his shoes and pulling his work shirt over his head. “Scoot over, you big loaf,” he says.

Steve moves, and Bucky manages to disentangle the blanket from Steve’s limbs enough to cover himself, in the process finally noticing that it’s  _ Bucky’s _ comforter. Steve sighs contentedly, and Bucky finds himself suddenly wrapped around Steve, spoon fashion. 

His nose is buried in the back of Steve’s hair, smelling faintly of apple shampoo and charcoal. The lights are low, and for once the neighbors are blessedly quiet. Sleep finds Bucky sooner than he thought. 


	4. Chapter 4

#  4\. 

_ January 1944 _

_ Several Nether-Somewheres _

It takes Bucky nearly a week to get the hang of transporting himself outside of Elsewhere. He doesn’t see any other particularly angry spirits, but there are far, far more ghosts than he ever thought possible. He finally gets a few to talk to him. Ghosts of priests, for some reason, are particularly prone to talking. 

They believe that they are still Here because the Church still needs them. Every spirit has a Cause binding it to this plane, they say. Many of them think this is Purgatory. Bucky’s fairly clear on what’s binding him Here. The priests say they have known spirits to move on after their business is finished.

Most of the ghosts Bucky sees want nothing to do with him. It’s easy to tell an old ghost from a new one, the older they are the less well formed they are, in general. The priests are nearly crystal-clear, but they also have a sense of purpose that many of the other old ghosts seem to lack. 

The native ghosts, ones who were here before the war, are the aggressive ones. Their territories are ill defined and Bucky finds that they are irregularly protective of them. The ghosts of soldiers returned from war often drift through the streets, looking for their homes. Then there’s the people who have died here, civilian casualties of the Blitz. 

It’s all entirely overwhelming for Bucky, and he often finds himself dissipating. Trying to hold himself together suddenly takes more effort than trying not to. He finally makes his way out of the city, into the country where the air is less congested. 

He has to make it home, to New York, to Steve. He knows this, but it still seems like a monumental task. So he concentrates on a single landmark, trying to draw himself closer. 

He ends up in the middle of the ocean. 

He tries again, and still more ocean. 

Bucky loses count of how many times it takes until he’s on land again. It’s not land that he recognizes, however. Beaches stretch away in either direction. He’s exhausted from trying to get here, so he rests a while, dissipating to a thin fog stretched along the shore. 

* * *

 

_ January 10, 1944 _

_ Brooklyn _

Steve’s first day at work is very boring. It’s bitterly cold outside, still, and the tiny corner they’ve allotted him is drafty, but it’s also directly on the other side of a thin wall from a water heater, so at least his aching back is against something warm. 

He goes home with the day’s pay and an invitation to come back tomorrow. It’s not enough to fix the window, but it’s enough to buy food. He stops by the greengrocer and gets enough for the night, plus some extra bread for the morning. 

The blanket is thankfully still in the window, so the apartment is the same temperature it was when he left. The sun’s setting by the time he finishes his food, and he considers taking a shower. It’s usually empty this time of day, but that would also mean he’d have to sleep with wet hair, something he can practically hear Bucky yelling at him for. 

He takes a shower anyway.

* * *

 

_ August 1936 _

_ Brooklyn _

The next morning, Steve wakes up engulfed by an octopus. Bucky’s clung tightly to his back, arms and legs entangled in Steve’s. Steve’s nose is pressed practically up against the wall.

He shifts, trying to turn around to see the clock, but Bucky only grips him tighter.

“Buck,” he says, trying to wake the sleeping man up.

“Mghh,” Bucky says. 

Steve jabs Bucky in the ribs with an elbow, a tactic long since proven to make him move. 

“Hell of a way to wake a guy up,” Bucky says, finally retracting his limbs back to his own personal space. 

Steve gives him a look, then climbs over Bucky and out of bed. 

“Where you goin?” Bucky asks.

Steve considers deigning him with an answer but instead just leaves. He hears Bucky plodding after him, and looks over his shoulder to find the sleep-disheveled brunet following him. 

“All right, fine,” Bucky says. “But I’m goin’ back to bed and you’re coming with me.”

“Sure, Buck,”  Steve says. “Whatever you want.”

The bathroom is blessedly empty, and they’re soon back in their apartment.

“You know,” Steve says conversationally. “If we’re going to make a habit of that, we oughta push the beds together.”

Bucky looks at him for a moment, then grins. They quickly rearrange the room, the two single cots pushed together in the middle. 

“Those are going to move apart in the slightest breeze,” Bucky says after a moment, staring at them consideringly. 

“We need some rope,” Steve says.

“Why Steve, I had no idea!” Bucky says. “We’ve barely kissed and you’re already talking about tying me up?” 

Steve blushes, then reaches for Bucky’s discarded shirt from the night before and thwaps him with it. This dissolves into a full on wrestling match on the floor, and Bucky has Steve pinned in a matter of moments, holding him down by his forearms, body braced above his.

“You yield?” Bucky asks. 

Steve shakes his head. He’s recently discovered a whole new world of “fighting dirty”. Bucky has his hands pinned, but Steve finds it immensely easy to wrap his legs around Bucky’s waist and pull himself up so he’s pressed along Bucky’s whole front. Bucky responds by nearly dropping him back to the floor.

His tactic works, and he finds himself pinned to the floor far more securely, by Bucky’s entire body weight. And also by his face, which is suddenly incredibly engrossed with Steve’s. Steve’s fingers bury themselves in Bucky’s hair.

Their position makes it immediately obvious that Bucky’s face isn’t the only part of him interested in their activities. For the last month, they’ve always stopped at this point, it was too hot or Steve was too sick or Bucky had to work. 

But now there’s none of those restrictions, and Bucky doesn’t seem like he’s stopping any time soon.


	5. Chapter 5

#  5.

_ August 1936 _

_ Brooklyn _

Bucky’s not sure he’s not in a fever dream, his entire existence seems too hot to exist. He’s hyperaware of all the places he and Steve are touching. Considering that’s his entire body, he’s feeling a bit overwhelmed.

Steve’s fingers are scrabbling at the fabric of his undershirt, and he thinks, rather stupidly, that he would be much less hot if he took it off, so he lets Steve pull it off over his head, and is surprised by a set of lips latching themselves onto his collarbone. Bucky’s still not entirely sure where Steve learned to do all this shit, considering before last month he’d kissed a grand total of one person who wasn’t related to him. 

Wherever he did, it’s  _ working _ for Bucky. He gets his own fingers in the fabric of Steve’s shirt and tugs at it. Steve obliges him. Bucky stops suddenly and gets a good long look at Steve. He’s flushed bright red from his hairline to his navel, and Bucky suddenly gets the urge to bite him.

So he does.

The sound Steve makes is unholy and brands itself into Bucky’s head. He’s determined to make Steve make that noise again, and sets about mapping Steve’s entire chest with his mouth. 

He’s not unaware of the bulge in Steve’s pants, and lets the hand that’s not holding his weight casually drift downwards and over it. Steve bucks his hips up into Bucky’s hand, and Bucky starts to laugh before it gets choked off in a gasp.

Steve’s shoved his hands, both of them, down Bucky’s pants, and he’s making himself at home. Bucky’s brain freezes, and how he reacts is not how Steve reacts.

Bucky rolls off Steve and stands up. Steve makes a confused noise, and then scrambles to his own feet.

“Buck?” he asks, barely getting the word out before Bucky’s kissing him again.

“Gonna fuck up your back on the floor like that,” Bucky mutters.

“Warn a guy next time?” Steve says, breath returning to something resembling normal.

“Sorry,” Bucky says.

Steve shuts him up with a kiss. There’s another scrabbling of hands at pants waistbands and then they’re apart just for a moment to kick the rest of their clothes off. 

Steve sits down on the combined bed and pulls Bucky down over him. The bare skin on skin contact nearly does Bucky in, and he takes a shuddering breath to steady himself.

Steve’s hands scratch down his back as Bucky nibbles on his earlobe. If he’s being honest with himself, Bucky’s working up the courage to actually do the deed. 

Turns out, Steve beats him to the punch, wrapping a hand around Bucky’s cock and giving it a tentative stroke. Fire ignites behind Bucky’s eyes, and his hand moves of its own volition, reaching down to stroke Steve, surprised at how soft the skin is. A feeling coils in the pit of Bucky’s stomach, and starts to snake its way through the rest of him.

Steve, meanwhile,  _ ignites _ under Bucky, hand fluttering away and locking with the other behind Bucky’s neck. Bucky gets a hand around both of their cocks then, and while Steve practically vibrates apart, he strokes them.

_ That _ does him in. the fire turns to dark, and then a bright white as the feeling explodes and fills him, he spills over in his hand, not realizing that he’s burying his teeth in Steve’s shoulder at the same time. 

Steve comes just a moment after, going stiff then making a noise that will embed itself even further into Bucky’s brain than the earlier one. Bucky tries very hard not to collapse on top of Steve, but only half succeeds.

After a few minutes, sense returns to Bucky’s mind, and he rolls off Steve.

They’re both sticky, but he can’t bring himself to care at the moment. 

“Well that was different,” Steve says conversationally.

Bucky flips his head over to look Steve in the face. It’s still flushed, making his eyes look impossibly more blue. Bucky didn’t actually think it was possible to fall more in love with him, but in that moment, he does.

“We should do it again sometime,” Bucky says.

“Although maybe we should get some rope first,” Steve says. He’s right, the beds are already gapping apart in the middle.

“If you insist,” Bucky says.

Unexpectedly, Steve flushes even deeper.

“Really?” Bucky says with a raised eyebrow. 

Steve doesn’t answer, but Bucky has… Ideas.

* * *

 

_ January 11, 1944 _

_ Nether-East Coast, USA _

Bucky “wakes” when the sun rises, and it takes a monumental effort to reconstitute himself. He’s not exactly sure what he “looks” like, but in his mind, it’s how he looked before the war, back when everything was bright and shiny and the biggest fear he had was whether Steve’s cough would continue. 

The thought of Steve causes him to transport unconsciously, and he finds himself on what he’s pretty sure is a different beach. Another, and another, and another. He’s in a neighborhood now. There are no ghosts here like there were in London, it’s almost strange.

It’s early morning still, and children on their way to school run through him. It’s an eerie experience, a strange statement coming from a ghost. He floats up and down the street, looking for some indication of where they are. The children were speaking English with American accents, and the sun rose above the ocean, so he’s fairly confident he’s somewhere on America’s East Coast, but beyond that, he has no geographical knowledge to be useful. 

It’s nearly noon when he finds another ghost. A woman who appears to be in her mid-forties (although transparent) is “sitting” on the library steps when he floats past.

“You’re not from around here,” she says.

Bucky shrugs, “Not even sure where here is,” he admits.

“Pennsylvania,” she replies. “You from that war they got going on in Europe?”

Bucky nods.

“How long you been dead?” she asks.

“I’m not sure,” Bucky says. “It was November, last I can recall when I was alive.”

“It’s January now,” the woman says.

“Of what year?” Bucky asks, suddenly realizing he could’ve spent decades Elsewhere and not even realized it.

“1944,” the woman says. “What year you hoping for?”

“1944,” Bucky says, relieved. Three months isn’t that long to have been away, how much trouble could Steve have gotten into in that time?

Once again, the thought of Steve jerks him out of the place he was. He materializes inside this time, actually landing in the wall of the place. It takes him a moment to orient himself, and then he realizes he’s made it. The apartment is a little messier, a little less care taken with the contents, but it’s practically the same as he left it a year and a half ago.

Save for the towel stuffed in the window. He goes over to it to investigate, and finds that the window is cracked through and through. How  _ that  _ had happened, Bucky’s not sure, but it’s a big hole. 

The Being had told him with enough effort he could manipulate physical objects. He tries now, tugging on the towel, and is very surprised when it comes free. It falls in the sink, and snow starts pouring in the window. He tries to pick it up again, and put it back in the hole, but to no avail. Trying to cover the hole doesn’t work either, there’s the rather disconcerting sight of snow falling right through his hands. 

Instead, he steps back, and turns to face the rest of the apartment. Clearly, Steve still lives here, his sketchbook is on the table, open to a page, and Bucky barely notices that he closes it as he passes. He goes into the bedroom, where the bed is unmade, clothes strewn about the place. Some of them are… were his.

Now that he’s here, he’s not sure what to do. All his efforts have been to get home. And now… he waits.

* * *

 

_ January 11, 1944 _

_ Brooklyn _

Steve comes home to a cold, cold apartment. The towel’s fallen out of the window again, and he rushes to stuff it back in, sighing at the small snowbank on the counter. He pushes  _ that _ into the sink, and goes into the bedroom to change his clothes. The place is a mess, he realizes, but he has little motivation to clean up, instead shucking his shirt onto the floor and pulling one out of the drawer and over his head. 

He shuffles back out to the kitchen and makes a sketchy dinner, wolfs it down standing at the counter staring out the window. He estimates it would take three weeks’ pay to get it fixed, a fact he’s rather dismal about.

Dinner consumed, he puts the bowl in the sink, and goes to the couch. It seems bigger now, with only him on it. His sketchbook is on the coffee table, the cover a soft brown in the single lamp he has on. 

_ Odd _ , he thinks, sure he’d left it open. 

There’s no desire to pick it up, so instead he finds one of the pulp novels Bucky had always left lying around, and opens to a random page.


	6. Chapter 6

#  6\. 

_ January 11, 1944 _

_ Nether-Brooklyn _

Bucky’s “breathless” when Steve comes through the door. He’s thinner than Bucky remembers, thinner than he’s been since before they were eighteen. His cheekbones stand out from his face, and when he goes into the bedroom to remove his shirt, Bucky can count his ribs from across the room. 

He’s nervous to approach Steve for some reason. It’s clear that Steve doesn’t know he’s here, why would he? Bucky’s pretty sure none of the living have seen him, although the Being claimed that he could be seen. They had not elaborated on that statement, however. 

Staring at Steve seems creepy, but there’s not much else to do. He’s surprised when Steve picks up one of the novels he’d been so fond of. It was the one he was reading when he shipped out, and he had never found another copy. He slides across the room to sit next to Steve, resting his arm across Steve’s back. Steve looks up at the contact, but there’s no other sign that he’s aware Bucky’s sitting next to him.

Bucky doesn’t look at the book, but instead at Steve. Up close, he looks even worse. He has dark circles under his eyes like he hasn’t been sleeping, and his eyelashes cast shadows onto too-prominent cheekbones. His hair is longer than Bucky remembers ever seeing it, and what little facial hair he has is unshaven.

In short, he hasn’t been taking care of himself.

A hot ball of anger builds itself in Bucky. He reaches out to thwap Steve on the back of the head and yell at him, but his hand flies right through Steve’s head. Steve has a clear reaction to this, looking around wildly. Bucky curses at himself and Steve both. 

* * *

 

_ January 11, 1944 _

_ Brooklyn _

When Steve starts to read, a cold draft passes over his back, and he looks up to check that the towel is still in the window. A few minutes later,  _ something _ flies through his head, he’s sure of it. It’s like cold water was poured directly through his skull. There’s nothing there. He shakes his head. Clearly, he needs more sleep than he’s been getting.

He closes the book, puts it back on the shelf, and turns off the lamp. In the dark, he feels his way to the bedroom and collapses into bed. 

Sleep does not come easily, it hasn’t for over a year, and Steve knows why. He pulls the blanket up to his chin, closes his eyes, and wills himself asleep. A heavy weight settles over him, and Steve allows himself to imagine that it’s Bucky wrapped around him. It makes it easier to sleep.

* * *

 

_ September-October 1936 _

It’s not that their lives take on a new rhythm in the months (and years) that follow, but almost as if a new instrument has joined the melody and made everything else tie together in harmony. 

Summer’s heat gives way to fall rain, and the streets fill with children returning to school. Despite the rain, Steve’s health is better than it has been in years, and sort of golden glow takes over their lives. A windfall from a series of commissioned comics lets them get things they haven’t had in nearly a decade.

It’s mid-October, and a rare hot day has left the night sultry enough to go up to the roof. A bottle of whiskey-the good stuff-, a few blankets, and a hamper full of food in hand, they settle in, high above the street. The sounds of children playing float up, and Bucky settles back, folding his arms behind his head and closing his eyes.

“You ever wish we were that age again?” he asks.

“What, eight?” Steve replies.

“Yeah, the biggest problem we had was whether or not you were going to get punched in that pretty face of yours,” Bucky says.

Steve barks a laugh, “You’re saying that’s not still our biggest problem?” 

“Well, at least now it wouldn’t make you any uglier,” Bucky says.

“Didn’t you  _ just  _ call me pretty?” Steve asks.

Bucky sits up, and grabs him by the face. “Just ‘cause you’re pretty to me don’t mean y’ain’t ugly.”

Whatever Steve might say to that, Bucky shuts him up with a kiss.


	7. Chapter 7

7.

_ January 12, 1944 _

_ Nether-Brooklyn _

Bucky has been staring at the hole in the window for the last eight hours. He watched Steve leave in the weak light of early morning, and it was now approaching evening. After Steve had left, Bucky had puttered, picking up the mess in the bedroom, and fretting about the window. But now he’s almost certain he has a plan to fix it. Manipulating physical matter is difficult, but it is possible. The shattered remains of the pane are still in a bowl on the counter.

Given that he’s dead, the glass can’t cut him, and he plunges his hand into the bowl. An hour later, he has the pieces of the pane arranged on the counter. He can’t stick them back together, obviously, but the Being had shown him a way to phase through physical matter that if he could  _ just twist… _ and then, there, he has it. The glass is faintly spiderwebbed, but it’s whole enough to stop air and snow from getting through. It’s a bit more delicate work to get it back into the frame, but when he’s done, it’s a near perfect fit.

He’s exhausted, but pleased. 

Just then, Steve comes home. Bucky turns, he’s standing in the sink, and waits for Steve’s reaction. 

Steve doesn’t have one. 

* * *

 

_ January 12, 1944 _

_ Brooklyn _

Steve’s had a bit of a shit day. His cough has been more persistent than ever, he had to bite his tongue (and his fists) to keep himself from beating his asshole coworker into a pulp, but given that he desperately needs the gainful employment, he’d done it. 

He comes inside, slamming the door behind him, and immediately reaches for the rest of the shitty whiskey. It’s almost gone, and when he’s drained it in two gulps, he tosses the bottle in the bin. 

He sees the towel he’s been using to stuff the window on the floor in front of the sink, and he just stares at it for a good thirty seconds, willing it to levitate itself back into the window. Finally, he bends over, picks it up, sighs, and goes to put it back in the window and… 

stops.

The pane is back in place. It’s faintly cracked, but it’s whole. Steve taps it, lightly, and it almost seems to stretch against the pressure, but there’s no leaks, and no cold air coming in. In fact, it’s already noticeably warmer in the room than it was this morning when he left. 

“Huh,” he says to himself, dropping the towel on the counter. Well, he’s not going to argue with whatever guardian angel has decided to fix something in his life. 

He goes into the bedroom to change, and drops down on the bed… the  _ made  _ bed. Something he definitely hadn’t done this morning. 

Looking around, he realizes that the clothes he’d left scattered around the room have been thrown in the hamper if they’re too dirty, and folded or hung if they’re not. His papers and pencils have been stacked neatly on the dresser. Even the rumpled curtains have been fluffed. It hasn’t looked like this since… well… since before Bucky left for war. 

A brick wall of emotions hits Steve then, and it’s all he can do to chuck his shoes off before he collapses into bed to cry himself to sleep. 

-

He wakes up sometime in the middle of the night. The blankets are pulled up around his shoulders and his belt and socks are off. It’s dark, and he doesn’t feel like getting out of bed, but he looks around anyway. He lost his faith sometime during the last few months, but there’s Something here, and he doesn’t think it’s God. 

Steve thanks it anyway.

When a whispered  _ “You’re welcome”  _ comes out of the darkness, Steve doesn’t find it surprising to hear Bucky’s voice. 

* * *

 

_ February 1937 _

“God _ dammit _ , Steve,” is the first thing Steve hears. 

He sits bolt upright in bed to find Bucky hopping around on foot, holding the other in his hand and swearing profusely.

“What?” Steve asks blearily.

“You can’t leave shit lying around like this!” Bucky says, and gestures to the shoe that he must have stubbed his toe on. 

“It was late and-” Steve starts.

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Bucky says. “It still hurts.”

“Sorry,” Steve says contritely. 

Bucky sighs. “You’re a slob,” he finally says. “But maybe if you just shove them under the bed, it’ll be fine.”

“I can try!” Steve says, and kicks the offending shoes under the bed.

Bucky snorts. 


	8. Chapter 8

8.

_ January 13, 1944 _

_ Nether-Brooklyn _

He’s worn himself thin, quite literally, moving things around, picking up after Steve, but it’s not something he’s been able to stop, he  _ has  _ to do, it’s as bone deep as his own name. 

Bucky’s haunting Steve, in the most literal sense of the word. He’s following him around, never farther than three feet from him. It’s the most frustrating experience of his … existence, knowing that he can reach out and touch Steve, but Steve would have no idea that it’s him. So he does what he can, taking care of Steve the way he had done when he was alive.

It feels like lifting lead weights after a while, but if he doesn’t do it, Steve’s going to deteriorate. It’s been less than two years since he left for war, and Steve is worse than he had been just before they had gotten together. His cough is persistent, he has no money, and worse, Bucky can’t do anything to  _ give  _ him money. 

Being dead doesn’t pay very well, and the money he had made in the war had gone to his family. Not that he resents that, they, aside from Becca, had never known about him and Steve. But they’re not actively dying in front of him. And Bucky can now speak from experience, being dead is not as fun as some religions make it out to be. 

He’s tried manifesting physically in front of Steve, but it hasn’t amounted to anything, having expended all his energy moving things. So he keeps haunting Steve. 

* * *

 

_ January 14, 1944 _

_ Brooklyn _

Someone or something is following him, Steve’s sure of it. Between the window and the window, half his breakfast was  _ made for him  _ this morning. If his apartment wasn’t so small, he’d suspect some kind of squatter was living there, but there’s just no place for someone to hide, unless they’re under the bed, and he’d checked there. And now, he’s forgotten his scarf at home and when he gets to the store, he finds it sitting on a shelf.

It’s definitely his, it was the last thing his mother knit for him before she died, and it hadn’t quite been finished. He’d bound it off but never bothered putting fringe on the other side. He knows his mother would call it the work of the wee folk, but Steve’s not sure what the deal is.

His first wild thought was that Bucky hadn’t died in the war after all, and was back, and just somehow hiding. But that, of course, isn’t possible. Unless he’s being haunted by Bucky’s ghost, which just seems … unlikely. Right?

He’s considering two cans of vegetables when he sees something out of the corner of his eye. Just a flicker of movement, but there’s something not quite  _ right _ about it. Steve jerks his head up to look, and there’s nothing there. 

He picks the one in his right hand, puts it in the basket, and moves on. He can’t shake the feeling that something’s following him, and the hairs on the back of his neck raise. He pays as quickly as possible, pulls the scarf up around his ears and hurries home. Halfway there, he sees the movement again in an alley, and freezes. 

There’s something there, something vaguely human shaped, and it’s looking at him. 

A passerby knocks him on the shoulder, and he jumps, and the thing’s gone when he blinks. The rest of the distance home is a blur, and he shuts the door behind him, dropping the bag, and sagging against it. 

Then he looks up.

“No,” he says. “There’s no way.”

* * *

 

_ April 1937 _

Steve never claimed to be a good cook. In fact, he’d admit he’s a rather dismal one. But surely, even  _ he _ can manage something with a recipe. 

It, Bucky’s birthday cake,  _ looks  _ good, but there’s no real way to tell without tasting it, and tasting it would make it look less pretty. So he’s waiting. Bucky’s due home any minute, and Steve is sitting on his hands, trying not to fiddle with anything and everything he can reach, but it’s proving a more difficult task than he had originally thought.

Especially since he’s not wearing any clothes, either. He’d taken them off  _ after  _ pulling the cake out of the oven, but since the cake  _ is  _ Bucky’s birthday present, he’s considering himself the other one. And the ladies across the hall always complain that their husbands are so hard to buy for.

A minute later, Bucky saunters in. He does a double take at Steve sitting at the table, cake in front of him, completely naked.

“Happy birthday,” Steve says.

“Happy birthday indeed,” Bucky says, dropping his coat to the floor.

“You’d better pick that up,” Steve suggests. “Or you’ll get pissed later when you trip on it.”

“So you  _ have _ been listening,” Bucky says.

“Oh, sometimes,” Steve replies. “Don’t get used to it, I’m the same stubborn ass you fell in love with.”

Bucky snorts, “I never doubted that for a minute.”

“Now, which present do you want first?” Steve asks. “Me, or the cake?”

“Why can’t I have both at the same time?” Bucky suggests, leering.

“Because I used this entire month’s sugar ration on that cake and you’re not going to waste it in a sex game,” Steve says, face completely straight.

His flat delivery makes Bucky double over in laughter.

In the end, they compromise. Bucky gets his cake and eats it too, with Steve sitting in his lap.

After, Steve reaches behind the couch and pulls out a book.

“What’s that?” Bucky asks curiously.

“Oh, just a little something I borrowed from Kate upstairs,” Steve says, thumbing through it to a particular page. His voice is nonchalant, but he’s blushing bright red by the time he reaches the page he’s looking for, and he hands the book to Bucky.

Bucky’s eye brows shoot up. “Is that… even physically possible?” he asks.

“I don’t know,” Steve says. “You want to find out?”

As it turns out, it isn’t physically possible, but they don’t die trying.


	9. Chapter 9

9.

_January 14, 1944_

_Brooklyn_

There’s no way Steve can be looking at, or rather _through_ what he’s seeing right now. He blinks his eyes, rubs them, tries passing his hand over his face, and it’s…. he’s still there.

“What the fuck?” Steve says.

The thing standing in front of him, the thing that looks like Bucky, only _transparent!_ , shrugs helplessly.

“You’re dead,” Steve says. “This is a fever dream.”

Not-Bucky, because it can’t be Bucky, Bucky’s dead, shakes his head.

“You’re not dead or this isn’t a fever dream?” Steve asks.

The thing rolls his eyes. He sticks his tongue out and does what Steve can only assume is his impression of someone dying.

“You’re dead,” Steve says. “And you look like my dead boyfriend. I suppose you want me to believe that.”

He nods vigorously.

“I don’t think so,” Steve says. “Bucky would never haunt me. He would’ve moved on, if there are such things as souls and the afterlife.”

The ghost buries his face in his palms. After a moment, he looks up, and gestures to the window. Steve stands up, and goes to look out it. Whatever the ghost is trying to indicate, there’s nothing out there for him to see.

He turns, and the thing’s standing right behind him. Steve shrieks a little, and the ghost at least has the decency to look a bit contrite. This time, the ghost gestures more specifically to the window, and Steve realizes he’s trying to indicate the pane that was broken.

“That was you?” Steve asks. “This was all you?”

The ghost nods.

“Why can’t you talk? I thought ghosts were supposed to be able to speak, how else are you going to say _boo_?” Steve asks. If he’s going to have a conversation with a ghost, he might as well ask the real questions.

The ghosts starts to mouth something, but Steve can’t make it out. He’s not bad at lip reading, but the transparency of the ghost’s body makes it too difficult. He can see the ghost getting frustrated, and then, suddenly it disappears.

* * *

 

_J_ _anuary 14, 1944_

_Nether-Brooklyn_

It’s too much energy to talk and physically manifest at the same time. He’s used up too much, and he can feel himself burning it up too fast. So he stops manifesting.

“Steve,” he says.

Steve jumps.

“You really think I’m not Bucky?” he asks.

“Where did you go?” Steve asks, looking around.

“I’m still right in front of you,” Bucky says, reaching out and grabbing Steve on the forearm.

Steve stares down at his arm. “What… how… _Bucky_?”

“Yeah, Steve,” Bucky says.

“You’re really dead?” Steve says, sounding unsure.

“As far as I can tell,” Bucky says. “I’ve never been dead before, so I guess this is what it’s like.”

“But… why are you here?” Steve asks.

“Why do you think?” Bucky asks.

“I thought you would have gone to Heaven or whatever,” Steve says.

“But then who would take care of you, asshole?” Bucky says.

It’s probably telling that it’s _that_ that convinces Steve of Bucky’s identity. He cracks then, and Bucky’s shocked to find himself suddenly half holding a sobbing Steve.

“But you _can’t_ ,” Steve says. “I was supposed to go first. You were supposed to get old, have a bunch of kids, tell them about all the crazy shit you did when you were their age.”

Bucky’s never seen Steve like this. Even at Sarah’s funeral, Steve had been a marble statue. He knows that Steve had grieved her, but he had never shown it openly like this.

“I guess the world had other plans for us,” Bucky says.

“Fuck,” Steve says, gritting his teeth. “Just _fuck._ It’s not fair. It’s not fucking fair.”

“I know,” Bucky says. “Believe me, I know. Given my druthers, I wouldn’t have died either. But I did, and there’s nothing we can do about it now. So I’m here, you’re here, and that’s that.”

Steve sniffs, and Bucky realizes Steve’s face is covered in any number of things. He reaches up for a towel, and hands it to Steve.

“That’s so fuckin’ weird,” Steve says, drying off his face. “Things just floating through the air.”

“Sorry,” Bucky says. “It’s a bit too much right now to try to be visible and audible at the same time.”

“What do you mean?” Steve asks, apparently having his tears under control for the moment.

“I use energy just the same as a living person does. I just don’t get more from eating,” Bucky says. “Showing up is a lot of work. This, not so much.”

“That’s still fuckin’ weird,” Steve says.

Bucky agrees with him.

* * *

 

_October 1937_

A year of good health has finally broken, and in a spectacular fashion. Steve’s come down with pneumonia in addition to having had his ass handed to him in a fight a week ago.

“Damn, you don’t do anything by halves, do you?” Bucky asks. Steve’s asleep, and he doesn’t think Steve can hear him. It’s worse than it’s been in a long, long time. Bucky’s more than half afraid that Steve’s not going to make it through. As soon as he’s sure Steve’s not going to actively die in the next hour, Bucky is going to go get Steve’s priest to ask if he can arrange Final Rites if they’re necessary. It’s not the first time he’s had to do something like this, and every time he thinks it will be the last.

It’s been a long day, and a longer one still because he has to go to work or he’ll lose his job. This one actually pays well, and he can’t pass up the money. So, he has a feeling of dread in the pit of his stomach all day, he can barely keep his meager lunch down, and he nearly runs home at the end of the day.

Bucky finds Steve on the floor of the bedroom in a pool of bedclothes. He’s awake, but barely.

“What happened?” Bucky asks, hurriedly trying to bundle Steve back into bed.

“Had to go piss,” Steve says blearily. “Still have to.”

“Can you stand?” Bucky asks.

He doesn’t think the answer is going to be yes, but somehow Steve makes it to his feet. With help from the wall, they eventually make it to the floor’s shared bathroom. Steve hates this, Bucky knows, but there’s not much he can do about it aside from look away. A few moments later, and Steve is back in bed, in fresh pajamas, with the sheets pulled up to his chin.

“Make me a deal,” Steve says, after a long time.

“What’s that?” Bucky asks.

“Don’t die before I do,” Steve says. “’m not sure I’m gonna make it to 25, so that shouldn’t be too hard for you.”

“Steve,” Bucky says.

“’m serious, Buck,” Steve says. “With the way I am, I could go at any time!”

Bucky sighs. “I’ll endeavor to stay alive as long as you,” he finally says.

“Endeavor? Really?” Steve asks.

“I’ve been reading a lot of shitty pulp fiction,” Bucky says.

“Doesn’t mean you have to say it out loud,” Steve replies, starting to laugh and getting caught up in a coughing fit.

“Suck a dick,” Bucky replies.

“Yours on offer? Because I don’t think you want what I’ve got,” Steve says. “It’s more than a bit miserable.”


	10. Chapter 10

10.

_May 1938_

Summer’s heat burns at the edges of the late spring day, and it’s all Bucky can do to keep his shirt on. This office job seemed good on paper, but it’s like being in an oven now, and it was like being in a glacier two months ago. It’s only temporary, the boss man has made that _abundantly_ clear, but Bucky usually takes whatever work he can get. So here he is, filing and stacking.

Lunch comes, and the men all gather their suit jacket and hats and go out to where the secretary has it in the conference room. Bucky, of course, is not part of this crowd. He doesn’t own a suit jacket, much less have the money to pay for a meal like that. What he does have is a few boiled eggs and the rest of last week’s bread. It’s a better spread than he usually gets, and he manages to steal some cheese from the conference room smorgasbord before anyone notices. He feels a momentary pang of guilt about not taking any to bring home, but then again, cheese disagrees with Steve in _many_ ways, so it’s probably for the best.

After lunch is much the same filing and stacking, and then it’s time to go home. He gets paid by the day, and because of that, he has an unusual amount of money in his pocket every day. It makes him feel incredibly nervous, walking through the streets with that much cash, and there’s a secret lockbox under the loose floorboard in the closet, but he has to get home first.

A stop by the greengrocer’s yields dinner ingredients, a stop at another store to get a new book for him and new pencils for Steve, and then it’s the long trudge through back alleys. It’s not dark out, unlike some jobs this one keeps normal business hours, but that doesn’t stop him from jumping at every yowling cat and flapping pigeon. Bucky makes it home safe, the money into the lockbox and the food into the icebox.

Steve isn’t there, but there’s a note on the table:

_Gone to help Mrs. Howell clean her husband’s grave be back by dinner. xS._

Bucky would be worried, but Steve’s sense of when “dinner” is is sometimes close to dark. So he strips down to a tank top and boxers and sits on the couch to read his book.

Somehow, he’s not surprised when Steve stumbles through the door an hour later, covered in blood.

The book, like so many before it, falls to the floor when Bucky jumps up.

“What now?” Bucky asks, fully expecting another tale of street harassment and back alley fights.

Instead, Steve bursts into laughter. “Oh you’re not going to believe this one,” he says. “It’s not my blood.”

Bucky relaxes a little. “Well then where the fuck did it come from? You kill a pigeon on the way home?”

“Something like that,” Steve says. “We was walking back through that alley over by Oscar Pinson’s building and all the sudden this cascade of blood just _pours_ out of one of the window. Sweet old Mrs. Howell about had a heart attack. Turns out it’s chicken blood. The people were havin’ some sort of ritual and that was the best way to deal with the blood.”

Bucky blinks a few times. “You’re taking the piss out of me, aren’t you?”

“Hand to God,” Steve says. “It’s true.”

“You attract the most ridiculous situations of any person I have ever met, Steven Rogers,” Bucky says.

“That’s why you love me,” Steve says.

* * *

 

_January 14, 1944_

_Nether-Brooklyn_

Bucky’s still not completely sure Steve believes that he’s actually Bucky. So he’s retreated for the moment, curling into a band of thin mist, spread to catch the most ambient energy possible. Steve’s gone again, his job seems to keep regular hours. It’s a long, lonely day, and made worse by the fact that he doesn’t have anything to do.

He never was much good at dreaming, but he can damn well try.

Steve comes home, a bag of something dangling from his hand, his coat from the other. Bucky coalesces, and hovers after him, not more than a ball of energy. He’s not sure if Steve can see him like this, and Steve’s giving no indications either way.

Steve gingerly puts the bag on the table, and then turns to the kitchen.

“I went and… asked some questions today,” he says, speaking to what Bucky assumes is supposed to be him. “There are… people I know who say they know some things about ghosts and spirits, and they don’t think you’re a hungry ghost come to eat me, so that’s reassuring.”

Bucky says nothing, waiting.

“So… they gave me this to offer you,” Steve says, and pulls something out of the bag. Bucky’s not sure what it is, but it’s resonating, and if he could just reach out and… touch…

Steve shrieks.

Bucky jerks his head around to find Steve staring at him with wide eyes. Bucky has manifested, and he’s not only standing, quite literally, in the middle of the kitchen table, but he’s also almost completely opaque.

“Where the hell did you get that?” he asks, staring at the thing he’s touching.

“From… those witches… uh…” Steve seems lost for words.

Bucky looks back at the thing. It’s a crystal, uncut, and when he pulls his hand away, he disappears as suddenly as he had appeared.

“They said you had to hold it for a bit for the effect to be lasting,” Steve says. “I wasn’t sure what the effect was, but I think that’s pretty obvious now.”

Bucky picks it up again, and it’s a bit less startling this time, to find himself suddenly corporeal.

“This continues to be fucking weird.”

* * *

_January 14, 1944_

 

 

_Brooklyn_

The appearance of his dead boyfriend in the middle of his table should make Steve think he’s insane, but it just seems par for the course at this point. He’s not sure what to say. Everything he’d ever planned to say to Bucky when he came home is now pretty moot, whether he went the “You need to find a girl and get married” route or the “I love you so much never leave my sight again” one. He’d never decided.

“So you’re looking good for being dead…” Steve says, rather inanely.

“Uh, yeah,” Bucky says. He runs his hand through his hair, and Steve’s surprised to see it move.

“I’m not sure I want to ask this, but, hmm… how…” Steve starts.

“How did I die?” Bucky finishes. He hoists the crystal, and walks _out of_ the table to stand closer to Steve. “Failed science project. Guess I wasn’t the right material. Neither were the other dozens of men that thing was testing on.” Bucky shudders, remembering the frog-like face of the “doctor”.

“That’s… fucked up,” Steve says.

“You’re telling me,” Bucky says.

They stand there awkwardly, like children who don’t know what to do with themselves.

After a tense interval, Steve’s stomach interrupts them.

“For heaven’s sake, Steve, have something to eat,” Bucky says. “I didn’t come back to haunt you just to stare you down and make awkward conversation about me dying.”

Steve goes to the kitchen to make food, and in a suspiciously casual tone of voice says, “So why _did_ you come back to haunt me?”

Bucky rolls his eyes. “Wasn’t that obvious?”

“Clearly not,” Steve says

“I promised your Ma before she died that I’d look after you, and I’m not going to let a little thing like _death_ get in the way of that,” Bucky says.

“Oh, so that’s the only reason you decided not to move on to whatever afterlife you’re destined for?” Steve says, rounding on him. “Because you need to take care of me like I’m a helpless _child?_ ”

Bucky grinds his teeth, the sensation not nearly as satisfying when they’re not actually physically teeth. “Of course not,” he spits out.

“Then for the love of god, why?” Steve shouts, tossing the bowl he’s mixing things in on the counter.

“Because I love you and couldn’t bear the idea of the afterlife without you!” Bucky shouts back. “God, Steve, you made me promise that I wouldn’t die before you once because you were supposed to die first, and now you’re arguing with my _ghost_ that I’m back to haunt you?”

Steve stops then, looks Bucky up and down, and bursts into laughter. He starts wheezing almost immediately, and has to sit down on the floor to get himself under control.

“Oh my lord,” he says. “This is the strangest argument I’ve ever had.”

“You’re telling me,” Bucky says, sliding down to sit on the floor beside him.

“We’re kind of fucked up, aren’t we?” Steve says.

“Eh,” Bucky says. “’s not like we weren’t this fucked up eight years ago.”

“It’s at least a little bit more, now,” Steve says, gesturing to the crystal in Bucky’s hand.

“All right,” Bucky says. “A little bit.”


	11. Chapter 11

11.

_December 13, 1938_

There’s rumors of war building in Europe, but Steve and Bucky don’t hear, they can’t afford a radio, after all. They have their own problems, Steve’s health continues to beleaguer him, Bucky’s steady job finally ran its course, and now no one is hiring right before Christmas. They’re both glad for the stash of money in the closet, but it’s not going to last forever.

“What are we going to do?” Steve asks, casually, over breakfast.

“Manage, like we always do,” Bucky replies.

“Have I ever told you how much I love you?” Steve asks. “I do. But eternal optimism is annoying sometimes.”

Bucky twitches an eyebrow and says nothing.

They finish their breakfast and Bucky gets up to go job hunting yet again when there’s a knock at the door.

“Expecting anyone?” he asks Steve.

Steve shakes his head, and Bucky opens the door to find his sister standing on the other side. She bustles in.

“Morning, Becca,” Steve says.

“Steve,” Becca says by way of greeting.

Bucky shuts the door behind Becca. She turns back to him, a worried expression on her face.

“What’s the matter, Becks?” Bucky asks.

“It’s Mom,” she says. “She’s having some kind of … episode about you not coming home for Christmas.”

“Who said I wasn’t coming home for Christmas?” Bucky asks. He’s been home every year since he moved out. Steve’s come along since Sarah Rogers died, too.

“I’m… not sure,” Becca says. “But at least now I can tell her that you _are_ and she can stop almost dropping plates.”

“Tell her to take a deep breath and have a drink, it’ll all be fine,” Bucky says. He’s used to his mother’s histrionics, but they’re usually directed in the direction of his father or Becca. First born boys apparently can do know wrong. Now, Bucky’s done plenty of wrong in his life, but not much that he’d tell his mother about.

“You coming, too, Steve?” Becca asks.

“Huh? What? Uh, yeah,” Steve says. “Looking forward to it, actually.”

“Good,” Becca says. “Now I have to go. Have a nice day, doing …. Whatever it is you two do.”

And like that, she waltzes out the door.

“That was… odd,” Steve says.

“Yes, it was,” Bucky says. “You know she knows, right?”

“Knows what?” Steve asks.

“About us,” Bucky says.

“She does?”

“She figured it out almost immediately, and I wasn’t going to deny it,” Bucky says.

“Well, if anyone has to know, at least we can trust her,” Steve says.

“Exactly,” Bucky replies.

* * *

 

_January 15, 1944_

_Nether-Brooklyn_

“I’m going to go see Becca today,” Bucky says.

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Steve asks.

“I’m not going to let her see me, but I think I need to see her again,” Bucky says.

“She’s still living with your parents,” Steve says.

“Shit, Christmas,” Bucky says.

“Yeah,” Steve says. “I didn’t go this year. Seemed …. Like too much.”

Bucky lays his hand on Steve’s shoulder, and Steve jumps. “What?” Bucky asks.

“That’s the first time you’ve touched me,” Steve says.

“Is it?” Bucky asks. “I’m sorry.”

Steve bites his lip. “It’s just… It’s been a long time.”

“I’m sorry, Steve,” Bucky says. “I’m sorry for dying, I’m sorry for leaving you.”

“I know,” Steve says. He reaches a hand up, and hesitates before putting it on Bucky’s. it doesn’t quite sink through, but it’s still a very strange sensation, probably for both of them.

Bucky pulls his hand back after a moment, and flicker of emotion passes over Steve’s face so quickly Bucky’s not sure he saw it.

“Please don’t stop,” Steve says.

* * *

 

_January 15, 1944_

_Brooklyn_

Steve never learned the words “touch starved”, but that’s what he is, and apparently even contact with the ghost of his dead boyfriend is enough to set off every single nerve in his entire body.

Bucky’s hand comes up to brush the hair off his face. It’s been weeks since he even thought about cutting it, and it’s getting annoyingly long. A thumb brushes across his cheek, then Bucky is framing his face in both hands. It’s too much sensory input, and Steve slams his eyes shut against it while leaning into the contact at the same instant.

Bucky moves so he’s sitting in Steve’s lap, a strange swap of their former positions, and it’s a very odd sensation. He weighs nothing, but there’s a definite sense of pressure, as if he’s just barely floating above Steve’s legs.

Two days ago, the idea of kissing a ghost would have been the most ridiculous thought Steve’s probably ever had, but at the moment, it seems like the most natural thing in the world. It’s the same odd pressure-without-weight, and though the texture of Bucky’s skin is almost _almost_ lifelike, the temperature of his presence is only slightly warmer than the ambient temperature of the room. It’s like Steve’s wearing a very thin blanket. Later, Bucky will tell him that the warmth is a conscious effort, and that he hadn’t realized he was being so cool, but for now, Steve barely even registers that difference.

Instead, he’s overwhelmed by everything that’s happening. He makes no movements other than his lips against Bucky’s for the first few minutes, but gradually, the overpowering nature of the contact begins to recede and a small amount of sense comes back to him.

He reaches his hands up to where Bucky’s head should be and finds that he can, indeed, feel it. He tunnels his fingers through Bucky’s hair, hair that’s longer than it had been when he had left for the war. It occurs to him then that Bucky doesn’t look like he did that day, but rather a few years younger, a few years happier. It’s probably telling about their lives that the happiest years were during the Great Depression, but you can’t argue with the truth, and Steve will take what happiness he can get.

It must not last for as long as Steve thinks it does, because soon he’s breaking away to cough his lungs up.

“Shit,” Bucky says. “Sorry.”

Steve turns to look at him, to say it’s fine, and he’s … gone.

“Bucky?” Steve asks. “Where did you go?”

“I’m right here,” Bucky says, sounding confused.

Steve scrunches his eyebrows. He can still _feel_ Bucky, but he can’t see him. Something bumps him in the side of the thigh then, and he reaches down to pick up the crystal that Bucky must have dropped.

“Oh,” Bucky says. “Sorry.”

“I feel like I keep saying this is weird, but it keeps getting weirder,” Steve says.


	12. Chapter 12

12.

_December 24, 1938_

_Brooklyn_

It’s late on Christmas Eve, and they have to be up early tomorrow to go to Bucky’s parents’ house, but sleep seems far, far off at this point. The snow outside is falling softly, catching errant rays of light from streetlamps and uncurtained windows. It muffles the sounds of the street, and makes the world seem soft and cozy.

Two and a half years after the admission that they love each other, Steve’s become frustrated with Bucky. He’s never been able to talk Bucky into fucking him the way he wants. Bucky will let them do it the other way around, but there’s always excuses for Steve being too sick or too breakable, and goddammit, sometimes Steve just wants to bite him. Well, not that he _doesn’t_ bite Bucky, but this is a bit different.

It’s not that he doesn’t understand Bucky’s reasons, it’s that he thinks they are absolute bullshit. He’s not going to break and he thinks Bucky knows that, he just doesn’t want to take the chance.

So Steve’s taken it upon himself to give Bucky an early Christmas present. It must surprise Bucky a great deal to come back from a shower and find Steve in their bed naked and waiting, especially like this, but he doesn’t say anything other than “huh”.

“Merry Christmas, Buck,” Steve says.

“Uh, yeah,” Bucky replies, clearly distracted by what’s in front of him. “You, uh, got yourself in quite the situation there…”

“Oh, I hadn’t noticed,” Steve says.

“If you can’t talk me into it, you’re going to try to seduce me into it?” Bucky asks.

“Is it working?” Steve replies.

“It… might be,” Bucky says. Steve turns to look at him, and the towel around his waist is tenting suspiciously.

“Good,” Steve says. “Very, very good.”

Bucky comes up behind Steve and puts a hand flat on his back between his shoulder blades, not pushing, just resting it there. “You sure?” he asks.

“When have I ever half-assed anything?” Steve replies.

Bucky snorts loudly, and it sends Steve into an answering fit of laughter. This seems to break the tension, and soon Steve finds himself being practically smothered by Bucky attaching himself to Steve’s face. The mood slips into something Steve’s both, ahem, intimately familiar with, and something edged in novelty and intrigue. Bucky’s hands are slower, more careful.

The tub of Vaseline they keep under their bed makes a starring appearance _in_ the bed that night, and it’s hell to wash it out in the morning, but neither of them are particularly bothered by the stickiness.

Instead, there in the quiet dark of late December, they, together, find a brighter Christmas star than the one in the sky. Not, of course, that that could be seen, given the cloud cover, but still. It’s poetic.

* * *

 

_February 1944_

_Nether-Brooklyn_

Their days have settled into an odd inverse pattern of their old life. Bucky waits around the apartment all day for Steve to come home from work. Sometimes he can manage to pilfer food for Steve, but that’s the odd day. Often, he’ll leave for a few hours to haunt Becca or his parents, but that always leaves a sour feeling where his stomach should be, so he has been doing that less lately. They’ve had a few months to mourn, and it’s obvious his death has left scars on them, it would be unfair to open a wound like that.

He’s had this argument with himself thousands of times, but although he’s been able to talk himself out of appearing to them, he can’t seem to make himself leave Steve. It makes sense, given that Steve is the reason he’s tethered to the mortal world, but it’s still incredibly annoying that he has to exist like this when they’re mere miles away. He goes again today, to follow Becca around. She’s taken a job in a factory building ships, and it’s strange to see his baby sister building instruments of war.

He’s incredibly uninterested in how the war is going, but despite that, he’s seen the ghosts of other dead soldiers in the city. Never talked to them, because there seems to be some kind of taboo on it that the Being never made him aware of, but the few passing glances he’s made at them have made him not particularly want to talk to them. So most of Bucky’s interactions are with the living.

Today, he finds Becca suspended from the ceiling in some kind of harness, riveting steel together. It’s convenient at times like this that Bucky can float, because he’s able to not only follow her around, but at one point he’s almost able to touch her. It’s fascinating work, watching curved pieces of steel become the hull of a boat, and the part of Bucky that wanted to be a scientist when he grew up yearns to learn how it’s all done.

Long days left alone and nights where he doesn’t have the ability to sleep leave Bucky with a lot of time to think. He’s considered everything from morality to the proper number of boxers one should have. He tried to follow Steve to work once, but the experience left Steve incredibly distracted for the entire day, and he’d nearly been fired over it. So instead, Bucky waits. He’s been practicing manifesting without the help of the crystal, but it’s still a huge energy drain.

* * *

 

_February 1944_

_Brooklyn_

Steve comes home to find Bucky dangling from the ceiling.

“What are you doing?” he asks, not really sure he wants the answer.

“Entertaining myself,” Bucky says. “Being dead is rather boring once you get used to it.”

“I’m sure it is…” Steve says absently.

Bucky comes down from the ceiling. “How was work?”

“Work was fine,” Steve says. “I think I’m getting fired soon though.”

“Why?” Bucky asks.

“New manager. He doesn’t like the look of me, or at least that’s what I overheard,” Steve says cynically.

“Damn,” Bucky says. “You want me t’ do something nasty to him?”

“Like what?” Steve asks.

“Oh, I can think of all number of things,” Bucky replies. “Passing through someone is a rather unpleasant experience, especially if I grab him by the balls on the way out.”

“You wouldn’t,” Steve says.

“Wouldn’t I?” Bucky asks.

“Well _I_ would,” Steve says. “But you were never the type for nasty pranks.”

“Oh, this ain’t a nasty prank,” Bucky says. “I’m just defending my boyfriend.”

“I’ll get back to you on that,” Steve says, but Bucky sees him smile.


	13. Chapter 13

_Late February 1944_

_Nether-Brooklyn_

Bucky goes back to the shipyard to watch Becca again. She’s putting the finishing touches on a panel, and he’s mesmerized by all the things going on. None of them. Becca, her coworkers, or the foreman notice the loose rivets in the panel above Becca’s head though. It only takes a moment, and then it’s slipping, slipping, slipping, and it’s all Bucky can do to catch it and hold it for long enough for someone to notice.

“Barnes!” the foreman shouts suddenly. “Get back!”

Becca leaps away from the metal and Bucky can let it fall to the ground.

“Damn good luck that thing held where it did,” the foreman says. “A few more seconds and, well…”

“ _Damn_ good luck,” Becca repeats. “It’s things like this that make me believe in guardian angels.”

A few days later, Bucky sees a poster. There’s a woman on it, her arm bent. She has a bandana tied around her head and the speech bubble behind her head says “We Can Do It”. To most people, this is Rosie the Riveter. Bucky thinks it looks suspiciously like Becca.

* * *

 

_Late February 1944_

_Brooklyn_

Steve was right. Less than two weeks after he had come home to find Bucky dangling from the ceiling, he’s out of a job. Luckily, he’s managed to put enough away to be comfortable for a month or so, but after that, everything is going to go to shit again. It’s not anything he hasn’t managed before, but he was never being haunted by the ghost of his dead boyfriend before either, so who knows what’s going to happen now.

He celebrates his job loss in the most extravagant way possible, with a bottle of not-so-shitty liquor. It’s his favorite whiskey, and dammit, he deserves a treat once in a while. He comes home, pours himself two fingers, and sits on the couch, contemplating the wall.

“You’re looking pensive,” Bucky says, appearing next to him.

“Do I have shit luck?” Steve asks.

“Yes,” Bucky says. “That was obvious from the first moment I met you, though.”

Steve chuckles. “Well that’s true.”

* * *

 

_May 1924_

_Brooklyn_

_Stevie Rogers was not afraid of nothing. His ma told him the world was out to get him, and he wasn’t gonna let the world do that to him. So when he stumbled into the middle of a fight between two groups of much older boys and tried to break it up as best as his five-going-on-six year old self could, he found himself on his bum in the middle of an alley with a broken nose and a black eye._

_“You’re an idiot,” someone said, coming up behind him._

_“Watch yourself!” Steve said. “I can fight!”_

_“Nah,” the other boy said, walking into Steve’s field of view. “I don’t wanna fight ya.”_

_“Who are you?” Steve asked, defensively._

_“Bucky,” Bucky said._

_“Bucky’s a funny name,” Steve said._

_“It’s short for Buchanan,” Bucky said._

_“Your ma ‘n’ pa named you Byoo-cannon?” Steve asks incredulously._

_“James Buchanan Barnes,” Bucky says proudly. “James Buchanan was a Press-i-dent once.”_

_“You got named after a president?” Steve asked._

_“My mom says he’s my great grand uncle,” Bucky says._

_“What’s a grand uncle?” Steve asked._

_“I dunno,” Bucky said with a shrug. “That’s just what my mom says. Anyway. What’s your name?”_

_“Steve,” Steve says._

_“How’d you get in that fight, anyway?” Bucky asked._

_“They was going to kill each other!” Steve said indignantly._

_“Nah,” Bucky replied. “They do that every week.”_

_Just then, Sarah Rogers came around the corner, looking tense, and calling Steve’s name._

_“Steve!” she said, and then upon seeing her son covered in blood, “Oh, Stevie what did you do this time?”_

_“They was fightin’, Ma,” Steve said._

_“Who was?” Sarah asked._

_“The McCarty boys and the Jones gang,” Bucky said. “They think they own this block.”_

_“How old are they?” Sarah asked Bucky._

_“Ten or eleven,” Bucky said, shrugging._

_“Steve!” Sarah said. “You know better!”_

_“But Ma…” Steve said._

_“I know,” Sarah said. “Who’s your new friend?”_

_“This is Bucky, Ma,” Steve says._

_“Ma’am,” Bucky said._

_“Nice to meet you, Bucky,” Sarah says. “Where do you live?”_

_“Three blocks up and one to the west,” Bucky said._

_“It’s going to be dark soon, you should probably run along home,” Sarah said._

_Bucky made a face. “My ma just had a baby and everyone’s going gaga over her,” he said. “I don’t wanna be part of that. I told my ma I’d be home before bedtime.”_

_Sarah muttered something under her breath that if either of the boys were a little older they would have recognized as cursing Bucky’s parents, but she put a smile on her face, and held out her hand to Bucky. “Well then, young Bucky, how would you like to come have dinner with us?”_

_Bucky’s face lit up. “I’d love that, ma’am.”_

_“I’m sure you would,” Sarah said._

* * *

 

_Christmas 1938_

_Brooklyn_

Getting up early has never been one of Bucky’s strong suits. Even on Christmas as a child, he’d never been good at it, for the first six years of life until Becca had been born, he’d woken up when his parents got him up. Steve, on the other hand, _is_ a morning person, of the most annoying variety. He practically vibrates out of bed most days.

“Bucky- y- y- y” he says, singsong. “It’s time to get up!”

“Go ‘way,” Bucky says, swatting at him.

“If you don’t get up, I’m going to feed you fruitcake for the next three years,” Steve says.

“All right, all right, ‘m up,” Bucky says.

“Get your pants on,” Steve says.

“What crawled up your ass?” Bucky asks, reaching for the pants in the drawer of the dresser.

Steve gives him a blank look and then suddenly bursts into laughter. “I’m not sure you want the answer to that question,” he says through gales of giggles.

“What? I… oh,” Bucky says, and suddenly feels heat rising through his face and into his hair line.

“M hmm,” Steve says with a slightly demonic smirk. “That’s what I thought.”

Christmas with the Barneses is a welcome respite to the four walls of their apartment, and Bucky is shocked to learn that his baby little sister has a boyfriend. He doesn’t like the guy much, but then again, the guy kind of reminds him of himself at that age, and fourteen year old Bucky Barnes had been a bit of an asshole.


	14. Chapter 14

14.

_April 1932_

_Brooklyn_

Bucky Barnes was newly fourteen years old and he was Ready to Rumble. Given Steve’s tendency to insinuate himself into fights that were definitely none of his business, Bucky had acquired a hand at not only breaking fights up, but where exactly to hit someone so they went crying home to their mommas.

And hanging out with Steve Rogers was rubbing off on Bucky, apparently. He is starting fights on his own now, with no real provocation other than that the guy looked at him funny. His mom is worried about him, he knows, but in his fourteen year old head, it’s not quite enough to worry him enough to stop.

It’s something else that encourages him to stop, though. Steve’s pugilistic ways are the cause of his own tendencies to want to start fights, but it’s also Steve’s sense of justice that pulls him out of it, gets him to finally stop.

“Bucky,” he said one day, having dragged Bucky out of a fight that Bucky had not actually started this time.

“What, Steve,” Bucky replied.

“You’re being a huge dick.” Steve said simply, offering Bucky a rag to wipe the blood off his face. His shirt was a loss, yet another one ruined by the rusty stains of blood.

“I am?” Bucky asked.

“You’re starting fights for no reason other than you for some reason like to punch people now,” Steve said.

“But… you…” Bucky said.

“Random fights ain’t what I’m doing,” Steve says. “Fighting for injustices and injuries done to the innocent? Yes. Because the guy winked at you wrong? No.”

“Injustices and injuries done to the innocent’?” Bucky quoted. “Where are you getting this shit?”

“I’ve been reading a lot recently,” Steve said with a shrug. “You’re changing the subject.”

Bucky scoffed.

“You’ll grow out of it eventually, I’m sure,” Steve said with a sigh, finishing wiping away the blood from Bucky’s forehead, cheeks, and chin.

* * *

 

_March 5, 1944_

_Brooklyn_

Not having a job means Steve gets to sleep in a lot more.

He takes advantage of it for the first few days, even if he _is_ a morning person, sometimes sleeping a few extra hours can do a soul some good. When he wakes up with a strange weight on his chest for the first time, he is afraid of what ungodly sickness he’s gotten in the middle of the night, and then realizes it’s Bucky wrapped around him. The thought warms him, and he opens his eyes to find… nothing. The strange crystal is probably still in the living room where they left it last night.

“Buck?” Steve asks.

“Steve,” Bucky says.

“Thanks,” Steve says.

“For what?” Bucky asks.

“For haunting me.”

Bucky snorts. “You’re welcome, punk. Not something I’d ever thought I’d be thanked for.”

“Weird,” Steve says.

“Weird,” Bucky agrees.

* * *

 

_March 7, 1944_

_Nether Brooklyn_

Bucky wouldn’t have thought that ghosts could be attracted to someone, at least not in the way that a living person was. And yet… still he found himself lusting after Steve. He never voiced it, lest Steve think he was some kind of freak, but at the same time, he thought Steve knew.

With the time off enforced by not having a job, Steve had taken up drawing for himself again. At the same time, Bucky was practicing manifesting without the help of the crystal. It doesn’t surprise Bucky that half of Steve’s drawings are of him, some ethereal, some look just like he did when he was alive. It’s a few pages later that he finds the really raunchy stuff.

It’s not the naked pictures of himself that surprise him, it’s the fact that he’s obviously as he is now, dead and a ghost. Steve had left the book open to those pages, and Bucky thinks that Steve had meant him to see them. He’d always been a bit forward about those kinds of things, but this was just somehow on a slightly different level.

“So you like those?” Steve asks.

“What?” Bucky replies, he’s a sliver of light and a voice at the moment.

“The smut,” Steve says, gesturing with his chin. “You like it?”

“It’s certainly…. Smutty,” Bucky says, in what he thinks is a rather idiotic tone of voice.

“Yes,” Steve says. “Now what are you going to do about it?”

As it turns out, they find out, there’s a lot they can do about it. ‘Physically impossible’ gets a whole new meaning when you’re able to walk _through_ the bed.

* * *

 

_December 7, 1941-January 1942_

_Brooklyn_

Pearl Harbor changes the world. Not really, it was probably inevitable, but for some people, Steve and Bucky among them, Pearl Harbor changes the world. Steve’s sense of justice won’t let him not try to join the war, and Bucky can’t stop him but it doesn’t mean he has to join him.

Becca takes up the cause of gathering support for the war effort and she begs Steve for his help. He’s willing to contribute art, but his health won’t let him do much more than that, and Bucky tries to avoid acknowledging that he’s seeing Steve crying about it.

“What could you do, Steve?” Bucky asks him. He’s being serious, he knows it’s an inevitability that he’s going and he wants the sense of Justice and Purpose that propels Steve to go along with him. If Steve can’t go, he can go with Bucky in spirit.

“I could be there, I could stop the evil and the bullies and the millions of innocent civilians dying,” Steve says. In another life, he would have had the opportunity. But this world’s magical serum doesn’t have a destination in Steve Rogers, and so Steve is left to his own self, on the homefront, trying and failing to get into whatever military branch would take him.


	15. Chapter 15

**Interludes**.

_January 23, 1930_

_Brooklyn_

Sarah Rogers was worried. Now, this was a normal state of being for her, but she was more worried than normal. Her son hadn’t come home by his curfew, and although this wouldn’t normally be incredibly concerning, he had been sicker than usual of late. She fell asleep at the kitchen table, no doubt getting a crick in her neck that would last for days. Steve rolled in at just before midnight, covered in blood and other … substances. At eleven, he was not much taller than he had been two years ago, and whip-thin. His clothes hung off his body and were decades old. They had been his father’s before Joseph had died in the Great War, before ever meeting his son.

“Steve!” she shouted. “What did you get into this time?”

To her surprise, he wasn’t alone, behind him followed Bucky and he was carrying his baby sister. Six year old Becca Barnes was a pretty little girl, she had her mother’s curly brown hair and her father’s blue eyes, much like her brother. She, too, was covered in blood.

“Sorry, Mrs. Rogers,” Bucky said.

“What the hell happened?” Sarah demanded.

“’S not hers,” Bucky said.

“Here, let me take her,” Sarah said. She took the prone form of the girl and put her on the couch.

“We were coming home a few hours ago and passed by a…boozey place and then all the sudden this guy comes stumblin’ out with a bottle stickin’ out of his face and there was blood everywhere,” Steve said.

“A few hours ago? Where were you since then?” Sarah asked, getting a cloth to wipe the blood off Becca’s face.

“The police got involved and we had to stay and answer questions,” Bucky said. “Is she going to be all right?”

“She should be fine,” Sarah said. “Did she hit her head or something like that?”

“She fainted when the blood got squirted on her,” Steve said.

“I think she might have bumped her head on the sidewalk,” Bucky said.

“Hmm,” Sarah said under her breath. “Did she faint immediately?”

“She’s been in and out,” Steve said.

Becca woke up then, and immediately started crying.

“Why didn’t you take her home?” Sarah asked Bucky.

“You’re a nurse, right?” he asked.

“I am, but your ma is probably worried out of her mind,” Sarah said, trying to comfort the sobbing child.

Bucky went white as a sheet. “Shit,” he said under his breath.

“Indeed,” Sarah said. “Why don’t you run home and get her, I think someone should stay with Becca tonight, and I do not want to risk you carrying her home this late at night.”

Bucky did as she said. Winifred Barnes was, indeed, worried out of her mind. A few minutes of explanation, however, and she agreed that it was best for them all to crowd into Sarah’s small apartment for the night.

_April-November 1942_

_Brooklyn and the Western Front_

Bucky’s numbers are up. He’d hoped against hope that they’d never be drawn. If it weren’t for Steve, he would have volunteered, but… he can’t leave Steve like that. Steve, now Steve wants to join more than anything in the world, but every single time he’s tried, he’s been denied on medical reasons.

There’s a drawer full of 4F stamped papers in the kitchen. It’s heinous, really, but Bucky can hardly stop him from trying. He goes off while Bucky is at work, and he’s home again by the time Bucky is, a new form on the table.

He sees it killing Steve that Bucky is going and he isn’t, and it’s killing Bucky too. Leaving for Basic is the hardest thing Bucky’s had to do until that point in his life. He finds himself amongst other men, and it’s strange because he misses Steve almost like a missing limb. All these men have their sweethearts at home and they talk about them in nearly flowery terms, but Bucky is relegated to vague comments about a skinny blonde. The other guys are all curious, but Bucky can never open up beyond that.

Coming home is the greatest feeling in the world. Steve welcomes him with open arms and he stumbles into them. It’s like a warm blanket being wrapped around him, but of course then the warm blanket tries to strip his clothes off and get him into bed.

Bucky’s not unwilling, and nearly two hours later, he’s exhausted and sated.

“Well then,” he says. “That was certainly a welcome home I can get on board with.”

“I’m glad you liked it,” Steve says. “I’ve been planning it for a while.

If coming home is like a warm blanket, leaving it again is like a shock of cold water.

* * *

 

_December 1942_

_Somewhere In Europe_

Bucky got mail infrequently. Usually it was dated six weeks or six months ago. So it surprises him to get a letter from his sister dated only two weeks old.

_November 30, 1942_

_Dearest Brother Barnes,_

_Or should I start it, Dear Sergeant James B. Barnes? I’m not sure, but it doesn’t really matter anyway. I thought you could use a letter from home that’s not from your girlfriend. She’s doing fine, by the way. Still, you know, trying to join the Army any chance she can get, but not getting very far in the effort. Health reasons and such._

_Ma, of course, is worried constantly. She’s taken up stress baking, and there have never been so many cookies in the house. I think she said something about making fancy bread next. Either way, when you get home, I’m going to be the size of a whale. Dad keeps taking them to work, but ten men can’t even keep up with what she’s baking._

_Dad’s fine, he’s proud of his son, patriotism, blah, blah, blah._

_I have gotten myself a nice new job at one of those old shitty factories out by the ports. Riveting is riveting. If you find yourself on a boat with B B riveted into the side, it was definitely me. I’ve also gotten myself a new boyfriend. His name is Bobby and he’s very nice. If you’re wondering why he’s not in the war, it’s for the same reasons that your girlfriend isn’t. He’s got asthma so bad he coughs like a horse. Wait… wrong metaphor. Whatever._

_Hugs and Kisses,_

_Your Dearest Sister_

_Becca Barnes_

Enclosed in the envelope is a picture of Bucky’s “girlfriend” and her “brother”. The picture is actually of Steve and Becca both. It’s a little creepy claiming a picture of his sister is his girlfriend, but probably better than the alternative. It’s nice to know someone is thinking of him, anyway.

* * *

 

_December 1942_

_Brooklyn_

Steve’s lonely and miserable. He’d like nothing more than to curl up in a ball and wait for the end of the war and for Bucky to come home. He has been spending far too much time with Becca of late, but she’s a comforting presence, and it’s nice to have someone to talk to who knows the sordid details of his life and he doesn’t have to dance metaphors about him and his mysterious girlfriend who no one has ever seen.

She, too, needs some moral support. He rather likes her new boyfriend Bobby, and thinks she is probably going to keep him for a while. Unlike the last boyfriend, but if Sarah Rogers had taught her son how to take a punch, she had taught Becca Barnes how to throw one eve better.

“You should write him a letter,” Becca says.

“I write one almost every day,” Steve says. “I never send them though. It would be too… odd.”

“Write one from his girlfriend,” Becca says. “I’m sure all the guys know about her already, besides, it can’t be any weirder than anything you’ve already written.”

So Steve sits down and he, too, writes his heart on to a page.

_December 19, 1942_

_My Dearest Bucky._

_~~It’s cold and lonely here without you in my life. Every day I pine for your presence as though it were my own heart’s beating. The days are long but the nights are longer. And then the days come again. And the nights. Alas, my love, too long have you been gone.~~ _

_Hey asshole,_

_I wasn’t lying, it’s too cold here, but that’s mostly because I can’t get Iggy to turn the heat up to something resembling reasonable. I’m wearing ten shirts at once right now, but I still can’t quite feel my fingers. If you could come home soon, that would be fantastic._

_Becca is reading this over my shoulder so I should probably say something complementary about her. She has lovely hair, a beautiful complexion, and her boyfriend is a very nice young man, even if he does cough too much._

Here, Becca takes the pen from him and scribbles a note in the margin. _He doesn’t cough any more than she does, Buck, she’s lying._

_Thank you, Rebecca, for that input._

_I’m serious about that thing I said a few years ago. If you die before me, I’m going to be very angry with your ghost. Because God knows you’re going to come back to haunt my skinny ass._

_Oh, the kettle is boiling, I have to go._

_Love and kisses and such_

_Your favorite girlfriend_

_S Rogers_

It’s a pile of bullshit and Steve knows it, but he’s going to send it to Bucky nevertheless.


	16. Chapter 16

_June 1918_

_Brooklyn_

Her husband is dead and she’s less than a month from having a baby. Sarah is the most desperate woman she has ever known, but she is not going to admit it to herself, much less anyone else. There comes a point in a woman’s pregnancy, however, that she simply cannot do everything for herself anymore. Sarah reaches that point, rather unfortunately, one day in the middle of the grocery store. She has a basket full of bread draped over one arm and a bottle of juice in the other hand when her entire self just… slips, and the bread goes one direction and the juice the other. The bottle shatters, of course, and the bread’s probably hopeless.

She sits down in the middle of the floor for lack of a better thing to do. A woman comes up to her, and offers her a hand. Sarah looks up at her. The woman has kind brown eyes and curly hair. A young boy rests on her hip, his eyes blue in a cherubic face.

“Do you need some help, ma’am?” the woman asks.

Sarah takes the hand, “Thank you,” she says. She looks around, there are people helping to clean up the mess she’s made. It’s embarrassing, her Ma back in Ireland taught her never to take charity from anyone, but it’s not as if she asked these people, they’re just being… nice. Surely that’s not so bad, right?

“It’s not a problem,” the woman says. “I’m Winifred, by the way.”

“Sarah,” Sarah says.

“Do you need help getting home? I’m sure my husband would be more than happy to help,” Winifred says.

“I couldn’t,” Sarah replies.

“Would you say no if I told you I’m going to do it anyway?” Winifred asked.

Sarah gives a small smile. “It wouldn’t be polite to refuse an offer like that.”

“That’s what I thought,” said Winifred. “But where _has_ that man gone?” She looked around. “Oh, there he is. Would you mind holding the baby for a minute while I go get him?”

Sarah nods and takes the toddler. “What’s his name?” she asked.

“Oh,” Winifred says over her shoulder, “his name is Bucky.”

* * *

 

_March 15, 1944_

_Brooklyn and Nether Brooklyn_

Steve wakes up hacking blood. It’s all over the blankets by the time he’s done with it, and he’s too weak to even try to move them out of his way. He’s not aware of the presence that means Bucky is there, and he can barely open his eyes to look around. He doesn’t see Bucky, and the crystal is sitting on the nightstand, unused.

All he can do is watch the time creep across the floor, the light from the window steadily growing. It’s weak winter sunlight, but it’s not a cloudy day, at least.

Bucky finally shows up just as the light is reaching the side of the bed.

“Shit!” he says, a mostly invisible form with a voice. He pulls the covers off Steve, who immediately starts shivering in the chilly air of the apartment. Steve’s shirt, too, is covered in blood.

“Sit up,” Bucky orders. He can’t pull off the shirt if Steve’s lying on it, of course. He’s getting better at the ghost thing, but he’s not that good.

Steve is re-dressed in the first thing to come to hand, one of Bucky’s old shirts that fits him practically like a dress. Bucky can not wrap himself around Steve to make Steve warmer, but he can damn well wrap him in clothes and blankets to make him warmer. He even insinuates himself into the wall in an attempt to increase the heat, but to no effect.

At times, he can almost see Steve’s … ghost, for lack of a better word, leaving his body.

“Dammit, Steve,” he says, “You weren’t supposed to die yet.”

* * *

 

_Summer, 1943_

_Somewhere in Europe_

The western front is the most shocking thing Bucky has ever seen, and if he makes it out of here alive, he’s never going to be the same again.

 _If_ he makes it out of here alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DING DONG THE FIC IS DEAD


	17. Chapter 17

 

_16._

_March 31, 1944_

_Brooklyn_

Steve is dying. He knows it, and there’s absolutely nothing he can do about it. There’s not going to be a magical “serum” that can fix this, no miracle doctors. The only cold comfort he has is that at least Bucky is here with him. Bucky’s dead too, and he’s said it’s not so bad, so surely there’s nothing to be afraid of.

He is, though, afraid. He’s twenty five, an age he never thought he’d reach. It’s ironic, he had once told Bucky that he would die before 25, and instead, Bucky had been the one to do that. Fitting then, Steve thinks, that he should die _at_ 25.

“I keep panicking,” Steve says to the air. He’s not sure if Bucky’s there or not, he’s been delirious lately, and sometimes he imagines Bucky’s alive and still there.

“I know,” Bucky says. “Every time, your heart practically beats its way out of your chest.”

“Were you afraid?” Steve asks.

“Yes,” Bucky says honestly. “But I was being tortured in a war zone and I was alone. Well, mostly alone.”

“You’re saying I shouldn’t be afraid?” Steve asks.

“Of course not,” Bucky says. “Do you know that with all I have left, I’d give anything for you not to die?”

“Don’t say stuff like that, Buck,” Steve says.

“Steve, for fuck’s sake, you’re _dying,_ ” Bucky says. “Of course I don’t want that to happen. I want you to get old and have ten kids and outlive them all.”

Steve laughs weakly. “We’re a pair, aren’t we? Wishing the same thing for years, and then just look at us, we’re dead before thirty.”

“Well, you did get yourself a shit hand in life,” Bucky says.

“You’re telling me,” Steve says, and he’s interrupted by another coughing fit. He pulls the sheet away from his mouth and there’s blood on it. “Shit.”

“You should get some sleep,” Bucky says.

“I can sleep when I’m dead,” Steve says.

“Actually, you can’t,” Bucky replies.

“Asshole,” Steve says.

They both jump when there’s a tap at the apartment door. Steve’s not strong enough to get out of bed and open it, and Bucky’s not going to do it.

When neither of them answers it, they expect the person to go away, but instead it swings open to reveal Becca Barnes. Steve hasn’t seen her since December, and she’s clearly shocked to see his condition.

“Steve!” she cries.

“Bec—” Steve starts coughing again.

“God, you’re in bad shape, she says, crossing the room quickly.

“I know,” Steve wheezes.

“I’m going to get you a doctor,” Becca says.

“Don’t,” Steve replies. “It’s too late.”

“Don’t talk like that, Steve,” Becca says.

Steve looks up at Bucky. Clearly, Becca can’t see him, but Steve can. “What do you think?” he asks.

“It’s your choice,” Bucky replies. “A year ago I would’ve tried to talk you out of it, but now… I’m not sure living like that is going to be any better for you than dying. It’s really fucking hypocritical that I stuck around this plane to look after you and now I’m not trying to talk you out of dying, but I don’t want you to have to suffer any more, and there’s no suffering on this side, at least no physical pain.”

“Sounds about right,” Steve replies.

“Who are you talking to?” Becca asks.

“Bucky,” Steve says.

“Steve…” Becca says.

“’M not hallucinating, Becca,” Steve says. “He’s been haunting me since January.”

Becca sits on the end of the bed, her weight bowing the mattress. “Steve, you’re sick.”

“I know that,” Steve says. “But not in the head. If I’m going out, I’m doing it clear headed.”

Bucky’s chewing on his lip. “I wasn’t going to do this,” he says to Steve. “Appear to my family. I wanted to spare them that.”

“I know,” Steve says. “But it’s the only thing that will convince her.”

 

* * *

 

_Nether-Brooklyn_

Seeing his sister is nearly physically painful, despite what he told Steve only a moment ago. It takes a steel will to be able to pull himself together enough to reach for the crystal that’s resting on the floor under the bed and lift it. He can tell the exact moment when he shimmers into existence from Becca’s gasp.

“Becks,” he says sadly.

“Bucky?” Becca asks uncertainly.

“Unlikely, I know,” Bucky says.

“Hell of a time to show up,” Becca says.

“You’re telling me,” Bucky says. “This whole thing has been the weirdest thing I’ve ever done.”

Steve starts coughing then, a deep, bone shaking thing, and when he sucks air in, his breath rattles.

“Shit,” he chokes out.

Becca freezes.

“Becca, I’m not sure you want to be here to see this,” Bucky says.

“I’m here, and I’m not leaving you to die alone, Steve,” Becca says.

“Not alone,” Steve says, reaching up for Bucky’s hand. Bucky takes it.

Becca squeezes her eyes shut and tears leak out.

What Bucky does next surprises him. He reaches out and takes Becca’s hand too.

Steve’s eyes go wide and still then, like he’s seeing something neither of them can see.

“Oh,” he says, and then his hands go slack.

Bucky can see it, Steve’s _self_ sliding out of his body, turning around to look at it. He doesn’t think Becca can, because she closes her eyes again, quietly sobbing.

Steve’s looking around, confused, and then he catches Bucky’s eye.

“C’mere,” Bucky says, offering Steve his hand. Steve moves slowly, and Bucky remembers then how difficult it was moving for the first time, so he stands up, and takes Steve’s hand in his own.

Apparently, the power of the crystal is transferrable, because Steve, too, manifests.

“Bucky,” he says softly. His voice is strong and clear, nothing like it had been a few moments before. He looks healthier, too, if a bit transparent.

“I know,” Bucky says. “It’s fuckin’ weird.”

 

* * *

 

_November 1-3, 1943_

_Azzano, Italy_

Bucky’s the one they pick from the cages next. He’d hoped it would be anyone else. It can’t be him, no one else has ever come back, and he has to make it home, he has to make it back to Steve.

But it’s not anyone else, it’s him.

The frog-like doctor talks to him, but Bucky’s not listening. He’s panicking. Whatever they’re doing to him, it’s like fire coursing through his veins with every breath.

He learns later that it will take him nearly two days to die, and that he was nearly the most successful test subject of the doctor’s experiments. In another world, one where things went differently, where a miracle doctor with magical serum saved Steve, Bucky survived, but in this one, he’s dying.

Bucky was never a man of much faith. What little he had died on the battlefield. Nevertheless, he finds himself praying, crying out to whatever deities might be listening to stop this from happening.

Nothing intervenes.

Bucky dies alone on a steel table in Italy, and the next thing he knows, he’s looking at his own body.

 


	18. Chapter 18

_Epilogue_

Becca takes a minute to come back to herself, and when she finally does manage to get her emotions under control, at least for the moment, she looks up to see both Bucky and Steve looking at her, smiling.

“It’s time now,” Bucky says. “I can hear it, can you?”

Steve nods.

“Will you be able to come back?” Becca asks. She’s not sure if she wants a yes or a no answer.

“I don’t know,” Bucky says. “It doesn’t seem likely though.”

“But it’s better, you know?” Steve says. “It really doesn’t hurt any more.”

“I’m sure,” Becca says, “but it’s still hard for us living people.”

“Time,” Bucky says. “We’ll be happy, Becks, I promise you that. So much happier than we ever were here. We have, presumably, forever and eternity. And before you know it, we’ll be seeing you again.”

“Oh, that’s a cheerful thought,” Becca says.

Steve bursts into laughter, and Bucky and Becca both look at him like he’s grown two heads.

“She gets to live the dream, Buck,” he says. “Grow old and have ten kids.”

Bucky starts laughing along with him.

“Well, hopefully not ten,” Becca says.

Bucky smiles at her, “Maybe not,” he says. “But you should go, live your life to the fullest and be happy and don’t let this pull you down. We’re happy, and we want you to be too.”

“Goodbye, Becca,” Steve says.

“I love you, and I’ll see you again,” Bucky says, reaching forward to hug Becca.

She embraces him, and then…. They’re gone. The crystal drops to the floor beside the bed, and she’s left alone with what’s left of their lives.

 

* * *

 

_Eighty years later_

There’s a field of green grass. It’s full of idyllic looking sheep and people lounging. Almost like what Heaven is supposed to look like? Becca’s not convinced. But still, her brother had promised her when she was a young woman that he would see her again, and now he’d better make good on that promise.

She starts across the field, and then there they are. They don’t look a day different than the last time she’d seen them, although they aren’t transparent here.

“Bucky!” she shouts.

He turns, and his face lights up.

“Becca! You finally made it!” Bucky shouts back.

“I wanted to take my sweet time,” Becca says.

“And I’m so glad you did,” Bucky replies.

“How have you been?” Becca asks.

“Happy,” Bucky says. “Happier than I ever dreamed.” He smiles and looks over at Steve.

The matching smile on Steve’s face outshines even the light of Heaven (or wherever they are)’s sun.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm @anakinslefthand on Tumblr


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